


Please Tell Me You'll Stay

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [19]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Psychological Torture, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9572585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: After being tortured on an alien planet, the Doctor goes to Clara's flat to seek reassurance and comfort. He finds that there's very little in the universe that can't be fixed with tea and tiny English teacher cuddles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has been written for a long time, but hasn't been uploaded until today. Apologies!
> 
> For anon, who prompted:  
>  _Could you write a fic kinda similar to Don't Fade Away... but where the roles are reversed and Clara has to take care of Twelve?_
> 
> Warning for violence, but it's fairly minor.

“Clara.”

It was the only word he could manage as he stumbled back towards the TARDIS, reaching out with his mind in the direction of his ship to compensate for the tears clouding his vision as he staggered through the darkness in search of sanctuary. He’d seen them hurt her, he’d seen them do unspeakable things to her, and it was his fault. He’d failed to protect her and now she was bleeding and broken and he had to help her, he had to _save_ her, because he had a duty of care and that was what he did. He took care of her, despite her protestations and her complaints about feminism, because he-

He wouldn’t finish that sentence. Couldn’t. Not after what had happened, or what he’d done. He tried to push the thought away, tried to suppress the memory of her warm scream and the blood trickling down her face, but it swam to the forefront of his mind no matter how hard he tried to fight to keep it at bay. 

“Clara,” he mumbled again, reaching the edge of the forest and seeing his ship in the distance. “Clara…” he repeated, praying the TARDIS would understand what he needed and take him to her. As he reached the doors, they opened automatically and he took two steps over the threshold before falling to his knees, head clutched in his hands and a scream bubbling from his throat. 

 _My thief,_ came a quiet voice in his head, soothing his troubled mind fractionally. _Thief, you are safe now. I will take you to her._  

“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling his hands away from his head and balling them into fists to avoid having to look at the blood that surely stained his palms. “I messed up… I…” he squeezed his eyes shut as the TARDIS groaned into life, unable to get the words out. “Hurt…” 

 _No,_ the voice of his ship refuted gently. _You did not. You know you did not._

“I’m scared I did.” 

_I do not understand._

“Nor do I,” he choked back a sob, disgusted at himself. “How could I do that? How could I hurt her?” 

 _Thief,_ the voice told him softly. _Thief, we are here. See for yourself._

Behind him, the doors opened into the twilight of Clara’s flat, idyllically quiet save for the muted noise of the television in the background. He turned reluctantly, shuffling towards the sound, and as his knees met the beige carpet of his companion’s lounge, she stuck her head around the corner of the TARDIS and affixed him with a baffled look, confusion etched across her features. 

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, and his head shot up in response, taking in the sight of her unharmed, dressed in a pair of joggers and a hoodie as she did her marking on the sofa. Relief flooded his system, and he burst into tears, lunging forward across the last couple of metres between them and flinging his arms around her, sobbing into her hair with abandon. “Hey,” she said more softly, arms reaching up to wrap around his skinny frame and hold him to her in a gesture of comfort. “What’s all this about?” 

“Clara,” he whispered, burying his face in her neck and breathing in her smell, trying to allay his panic. “My Clara.”

“Yes, your Clara,” she soothed, shifting them both on the sofa so that he was sat more comfortably by her side as they embraced. “What happened? This isn’t like you.” 

He only whimpered in response and clung to her all the tighter, unable to find the words to elucidate what had happened, and so for a few moments he held her in silence, sobs racking him as he listened to the reassuring beat of her heart and felt the warmth of her skin under his hands. Lulled by the rhythm of her heartbeat, he felt his breathing slow to a normal rate, but still he clung to her, craving the feel of her in his arms and the way she looked at him with absolute trust. A small part of him objected to that final part, and he looked away from her, burying his head in the crook of her shoulder to avoid meeting her gaze, and he felt her reach up with one hand and stroke his hair in slow, reassuring motions.

“Hey,” she said after a moment, reaching down and placing two fingers under his chin, tilting his head up to try and encourage him to look at her. “Look at me, OK?” 

He whimpered again in a non-verbal refusal, unable to risk looking her in the eyes lest she read the guilt written there. 

“It’s alright,” she told him, her tone gentle. “That part isn’t important. But if you want to be held then this probably isn’t comfortable for either of us, so I’m going to move.” His arms tightened around her in response, clutching her to his chest like a talisman. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m not going to let go or go anywhere, don’t you worry.” 

She shifted towards him, keeping her arms loosely around his shoulders before slipping one leg over him and moving until she was straddling his lap, her head resting on his chest and her arms encircling his torso. She nuzzled into him, her breath warm against his skin, and he pressed a single kiss to her forehead in gratitude. 

“Better?” she asked, her tone worried, and he felt his hearts flutter. “Or too much?” 

“Better,” he confirmed, his arms holding her against him protectively. “Much better.” 

“You going to tell me what happened?” she asked, leaning back and looking up at him with concern. “Because I’m worried.”

He shook his head emphatically. “Not yet,” he told her, stroking her hair and revelling in the knowledge that she was safe and healthy. “In a little bit.” 

“I’d offer tea, but that involves breaking up the hug.” 

“I’ll take the hug over tea.” 

“OK, now I’m really worried,” she looked up at him, extracting one arm from their embrace to cup his cheek. “You’re scaring me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said at once, pushing her away from him and scooting to the extreme opposite end of the sofa, bringing his knees to his chest and beginning to rock back and forth, pressing his face into his knees as he did so. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

“Hey,” she said at once, edging closer to him and reaching over, settling her hand on his arm. “It’s alright. Not in a bad way. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, daft man.” 

“But I did,” he choked, hating himself in that instant. “I _did_ hurt you.” 

“When?” Clara asked, her brow furrowing as she cast her mind back. “I mean, we fall out sometimes, but that doesn’t really count. You’ve never hurt me, don’t be silly.” 

“I hurt you, I hurt you and there’s blood on my hands and I did bad things, I let other people do bad things, and I can’t… _stop looking at me like that_.” 

“Doctor,” Clara said gently, taking his hand in hers and turning it over, prising his fingers open with her own. “No blood. See? And I’m not hurt. I can promise you I’m not.”

“Show me your neck.” 

“My _neck_?” 

“Yes, your neck,” he snapped, feeling guilty at once and then adding in a gentler, more contrite tone: “Please.” 

“Fine,” she acquiesced, twisting her hair up with one hand and baring her neck to him, turning her head from side to side to allow the light to fall on her skin. “See? It’s ok.” 

“You’re really OK?” 

“Really _confused_ , but otherwise OK, yeah,” she assured him, letting her hair fall around her shoulders once more and offering him a warm smile of reassurance. “Not hurt. You haven’t hurt me.”

“’M’sorry,” he mumbled, taking her hand in his and meshing their fingers together. “’M’glad you’re OK.”

“I’d be glad too, if you’d tell me what was going on.” 

He sighed, reaching for her with both arms in a way that he knew was distinctly childlike, but found he no longer cared. He needed her. “Please,” he said simply, by way of explanation. “If I tell you, I need to know you’re OK.” 

She climbed onto his lap without protest, snuggling into his chest and resting her palm between his two hearts, waiting for him to explain. He settled his arms around her, dipping his head to press a single kiss to her hair as he tried to make sense of his thoughts. 

“Well,” he began, after a moment’s pause. “I wasn’t doing much, and I got a message from an old friend. Dorium Maldovar, you haven’t met him, but he’d… well, he’d got himself into a pickle, so I went to bail him out of a tight spot. He was over on Skandiva – you know, that medieval-type planet I told you about.” He felt Clara nod against his chest. “Well I went to get him – quick in and out job, I thought. Nothing too major or difficult. Only… the Skandivans have evolved somewhat in the last couple of centuries. Totally unprecedented technological development, and I didn’t have a bloody clue about it. So I tripped an alarm system, got captured-” 

“The usual, then?” Clara teased, and he half-smiled at her words. 

“The usual,” he agreed. “But they’ve got new tech. Telepathically-based gear, used to… well, extract information from people. It shows you…” he took a deep breath, attempting to minimise the horrors of the technology. “It shows you your worst fears. Plays them out in a graphic, high-definition, multisensory format, right in your mind’s eye.” 

“And yours was you hurting me?” Clara asked quietly, and he sighed. She was always so much more perceptive than he gave her credit for. “I’m guessing?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. “Them hurting you, and… and _me_ hurting you.”

She twisted her hair back from her neck again, revealing the smooth, pale expanse of skin at her throat. “I’m OK,” she assured him, resting her head against his chest as he ran one finger along the ridge of her windpipe in an act of self-reassurance. “See?”

“You were… you were just broken,” he managed, beginning to cry as the memory of the visions threatened to consume him again. “You were in my arms and I was hurting you over and over and over and I couldn’t stop…” 

_Her eyes, wide and terrified, silently chastising him as his fist connected with the side of her face. Bruises blooming across the clammy pallor of her skin, her lip splitting as he brought his hand up again and blood rusted across his knuckles. His gaze travelling downwards, alighting on the dark handprint on her throat that matched his spindly fingers, further down to where her blouse had been ripped open and angry red marks followed the jut of her collarbones, further down to-_

_She was torn from his grasp from him by a laughing guard, and he understood their words, he wanted to turn away but he couldn’t and so he could never unsee the look of betrayal on her face as she silently wept._

“Doctor?” Clara’s voice cut through the visions, and he looked down at her in confusion, blinking to clear his eyes of tears. “You didn’t hurt me. I promise you, you didn’t. You would never do that.” 

“But…” 

“What you saw was a manifestation,” she murmured. “A bad dream. I know it was hard to see. I know you feel guilty. But look at me. Hey. Focus on me, that’s it. I’m alright. I’m safe and I’ve got you and it’s going to be OK.” 

“I’m scared,” he confessed, swiping his eyes with his sleeve and sniffing. “So scared.” 

“Do you…” Clara hesitated for half a beat, wondering how to phrase her question. “Do you _want_ to hurt me? I mean, are you… repressing that?” 

“No!” he said at once, furious at the very accusation. “No! Of course not! Why would you think that?! Clara, never!”

“See?” she replied, with a knowing smile. “You don’t want to hurt me. You wouldn’t. You _couldn’t_. It’s not something you need to worry about, because you got angry just thinking about it.” 

“It’s not that,” he told her unwillingly. “It’s not that I’m worried _I’ll_ hurt you. It’s more…”

“Worrying that I’ll get hurt and it’ll be your fault?” 

“How could you know that?”

“Because I know you,” she reminded him gently. “Well, I know you… _and_ I did psychology at A-Level. You saw people hurting me, and that’s indicative of you worrying about me getting hurt and it being your fault. The fact that you ended up hurting me – sorry, sorry – is probably reflective of you thinking about your role within events. A literal representation of it being ‘your fault.’ The Skandivans need to refine their tech, because that’s a shit way to represent things.” 

“But it would be my fault,” he argued weakly, although part of him knew she was right. “I have a duty of care.” 

“But you know what I have?” Clara asked, raising her eyebrows as she continued: “Free will. A mind of my own.” 

“But-” 

“Doctor,” she said firmly. “It will never be your fault. Unless you literally run me over with the TARDIS, _Wizard of Oz_ style. Please don’t do that.” 

“I won’t,” he promised her at once. “I just feel… confused.” 

“I know,” she told him, her tone gentle. “I know you do.” 

“It seemed so real, but _you’re_ real.” 

“I am,” she looked up at him and smiled. “I’m real and I’m alive and I’m safe with you. Safer than safe with my Doctor.”

“Can we just… hug for a bit longer? Then have tea?” he asked shyly, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her smell, citrusy and familiar and reassuring.

“Absolutely,” she agreed with a smile. “TV on or off?” 

“Don’t mind. You’re more interesting, if I’m honest.” 

“Mind you don’t feed my egomania,” she teased. “Not that it needs it.”

He chuckled, then held her closer, needing to make a final confession. “Clara,” he began unwillingly. “Clara, they did things…” 

“Doctor,” she met his gaze levelly, her eyes dark and serious. “I can do taekwondo. I’ve kicked a lot of men-slash-aliens in the balls. I can hold my own, don’t you worry.” 

“But-” 

“I don’t want to dwell on things like that. OK? _You_ shouldn’t dwell on things like that. The bad memories are bad but we can make new ones,” she squirmed upwards on his lap and kissed his forehead, before settling back down and grimacing. “God, you’ve got bony legs.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” 

“Well, you’re stabbing me in the arse with your kneecaps, I swear to god I’m going to have bruises.” 

“Look, I’m doing the hugging thing now! Don’t I get points for that?” he complained, and she laughed. 

“Lots of points,” she concurred, and his mouth quirked up into a smile. “There. My Doctor, smiling and relaxed. That’s better. Tea?” 

“Yeah,” he shifted a little, blushing with embarrassment. “Can I come with you while you make it?” 

“Of course,” she told him, getting to her feet and holding out one hand to him, smiling as he took it. “Your legs might be a bit numb” 

“Superior physiology,” he reminded her, before standing and shaking out his legs anyway. “Tea?”

“Alright, Mr Impatient,” she chided, leading the way into the kitchen and sticking the kettle on. “Would you like to stay here tonight?” 

“Urm…”

“Or on the TARDIS, if that’ll make you feel safer?” 

“The TARDIS would be nice thanks,” he mumbled, turning a delicate shade of pink again. “Why’re you being so nice?” 

“I’m always nice,” she told him. “And because you’re scared, and I don’t want you to be alone like this. You _shouldn’t_ be alone like this.” 

“Clara…” 

“Don’t even argue, OK?” she asked, turning to him with tears in her eyes. “Please. I don’t want you to be alone.” 

“Hey,” he began, taken aback. “What’s…" 

“You’re such a martyr sometimes,” she explained, dabbing at her eyes with her cuff. “And it’s a pain in the arse, and I’m not having you alone and scared, because I worry about you.” 

“But…” 

“I’ve got just as much a duty of care over you, you idiot, as you do over me. So, we’re staying on the TARDIS tonight, tucked away in the vortex. No complaints, no arguments.” 

“None being made,” he muttered, holding up his hands in a pacifistic gesture. “Kettle’s boiled.” 

“Well then,” she said with a distinct tone of smugness, reaching for their usual mugs and the teabags. “Get out a tray and some biscuits.” 

“Biscuits?” 

“Yes, biscuits. I know you pinch them anyway.” 

He grinned, stooping to the cupboard where she kept them and arranging two packets on a tray as she made the tea, adding spoonfuls of sugar to his with a practiced eye. Satisfied, she gave both mugs a final stir and then set them down on the tray, handing it to him with a warning look. 

“I’ll be careful,” he assured her in response to her non-verbal threat, making his way towards the TARDIS as Clara switched off the TV and opened the doors for him, stepping into the console room and smiling. “Hello, old girl.”

_My thief._

“Clara’s OK,” he stated, somewhat unnecessarily, nodding towards her and grinning. “See? All happy and OK. So we’re gonna be in the library.”

 _I am glad she is safe, and you are smiling._  

Clara led the way, sinking down on her favourite green leather sofa beside the fire and patting the space next to her in a silent invitation. Setting the tray down on the low table in front of them, he sat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, her legs curling up underneath her as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“This OK?” she asked, looking up at him with concern. “Comfy?”

“Very.” 

“You never finished your story about Skandiva,” she noted, closing her eyes and preparing to listen. “And your friend.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned as realisation dawned on him. “I left him there. Dorium. With them.”

“Well,” Clara said pragmatically, unruffled in the face of his panic. “I’m sure he can cope.”

“I need to go and get him!”

“No you don’t,” she said firmly. “I’m not having you get upset again.”

“He’s a head in a box, Clara! He can’t just walk out of there!”  
  
“For god sake, will you stop?” she cried, throwing up her hands as she spoke. “You don’t owe him anything! You don’t owe the universe anything! You owe me the very minimum duty of staying alive, that is _all!_ I’m not having you going back there and upsetting yourself again. I won’t allow it. We’re going to sit here and you’re going to relax and he’s going to sort his own shit out without you. Please. Do that for me.”

“OK,” he acquiesced, pulling her closer and exhaling slowly, feeling her relax under his touch. “We can stay.”


End file.
